


Est. 1976

by septembergem



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Deadlock McCree, Deadlock Past, Deadlock vs. Shimada clan (sorta), Fluff, For the most part, Implied Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison/Reaper | Gabriel Reyes - Freeform, Kind of a slow build, M/M, Mild Angst, My timeline is kinda off but the events are all canonical, Non-Graphic Violence, Shimada Clan, Violence, Young Genji Shimada, Young Hanzo Shimada, Young Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada (kinda), mostly canonical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-14 18:13:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11213505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/septembergem/pseuds/septembergem
Summary: Jesse McCree prefers not to think about his past before Deadlock, or his future after if, considering neither really matter.Hanzo Shimada just worries about his impending responsibility of running the largest crime unit in the world; and his brother. He also worries about his brother.Then Overwatch sticks their nose into things, and suddenly Deadlock is dead, the Shimadas are dying, and two kids on opposite wrong sides of the train tracks are pulled together accidentally.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! Welcome to this adventure!
> 
> A few things that need explaining before we dive in:  
> -Within the first chapter of this work, I took the liberty of adding in some OCs to fill in the Deadlock gang member spots - they're pretty minor characters, and shouldn't really cause any reason to panic haha  
> -I took some liberties with the timeline of this work, and so, just know that events that are going to happen in later chapters don't line up perfectly with the canon lore of Overwatch. Believe me, I spent hours pouring over the timeline and ended up just confusing myself trying to line it up with this story, so I gave up! If anyone is in need of the timeline for this story and how it lines up with the canon timeline, I'd be happy to post the timeline for events in this story with their respective dates! Just let me know!  
> -I have the entire plot for this story worked out, I just need to write it, so updates may be slightly sporadic, but hopefully, I'll get content out ASAP!
> 
> Enjoy, loves! Please feel free to leave questions and concerns in the comments <33

**“Deadlock** ; {see ‘Deadlock Gang’}  Deadlock Rebels. Est. 1976

     [Notable members]

             -Madden “Mad” Rivera (2021) *deceased

             -Amos Davia * (2025)

             -Cooper “Quickdraw” Garcia (unknown)

             -Levi Martinez (unknown)

             -Etta Williams (unknown)

     [Location of Operation]

               Route 66 ; [California, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas;...]

     [Industry]

               “...trafficking illicit weapons and military hardware throughout the southwest  United States…” {as per the Overwatch ™ database-”

“Look, Amos, I don’t right see the point of this.” Jesse McCree spoke, interrupting his own reading as he looked up at his superior, dropping the holopad flat onto the table. Amos Davia turned to look at where he was sitting, his fingers hovering over his own holopad, pausing in his typing. Jesse continued speaking. 

“Doncha know what kinda info the world’s got on us already? Seems like you practically check fuckin’ daily,” he said, resting his chin in his hand and giving Amos a bored look. The older man paused for a moment, then put his holo onto the table that separated the two of them. He looked at Jesse, his face devoid of any telling emotions. Jesse stared him right back. 

“You listen to me, McCree.” he said, speaking slowly. He put both his hands on the table, leaning into his words. “I don’t care how long you’ve been a part of this fucking disaster. I don’t care how you got to act under your old superior. What I do care about is a deadbeat kid like you givin’ me some respect.” he said. Jesse leaned back in his chair, relaxed, the words seeming to go in one ear and come out the other. 

“Yeah, right, sure, but you didn’t answer my question.” He situated his hands behind his head, putting himself in a position in his chair that just made waves of “fuck you” energy roll off of him. “You scared of somebody findin’ somethin’ out, Amos?” His fingers mindlessly played with the end of his hair, which was growing out quite nicely. He finally saw a ripple of anger surge through Amos. 

“Get out of my sight.” he said through tight lips. McCree shrugged as he stood. 

“Aight, fine, whatever. Call me if you need anything,  _ boss _ .”

McCree made sure to leave the door open as he left, reveling in the satisfaction that he made Davia close it himself. 

Jesse McCree had been in the Deadlock gang for, as far as he was concerned, his whole life. Right now, he was the ripe old age of sixteen, addicted to cigarettes and better at shooting tequila on Saturdays than Cooper was, and he was twenty-five. He went into the business young enough to where it was all he cared about. Earlier memories than Deadlock he either couldn’t remember or chose to forget. He didn’t need to spend energy remembering his reflection, tear-streaked and weak after he had been told that his mother was dead. He didn’t need to remember that he’d never met his father, and now never would. What he did need to remember was learning how to fire a gun. Learning how to survive on his own. Convincing Mad Rivera to let him into the gang. 

Of course, there were a lot of parts of his Deadlock memories he also tended to block out. His punishments, for example. Or his many, many tests and qualifiers. However, unlike his childhood memories, where he deleted them altogether, he just repressed any Deadlock memories that were particularly unsavory. It was important to remember pain so he wouldn’t do something to inflict that upon himself again. 

Well, unless he was feeling  _ especially _ like a little shit; then he didn’t really give two fucks about what happened to him, as long as the annoyance and, in some cases, the pain was inflicted on his target the way he desired. 

McCree walked through his gang’s current residence until he reached the main doors outside. He kicked the door open with the toe of his boot and slammed it shut with the heel. Once outside, he sighed deeply, looking over his desert domain. He pulled a cigarette from his inside shirt pocket and a lighter from the back of his jeans, puffing smoke to the red rocks. He needed to get away. 

Amos Davia was driving him crazy. He took over the position of ‘Superior’ after the death of Madden Rivera, or Mad, as he preferred to be called. Though he wasn’t a good guy by any means, Mad was the one that let Jesse into all of this. Let him get away. To be fair, he did try to kill Jesse multiple times, but in the end, Jesse was thankful for it. It taught him how to survive a knife fight. A gun fight. A fist fight. And in the end, Mad took so much of a liking to him that Jesse essentially became his wingman. 

Now just because he was an uppity up didn’t mean meals didn’t get withheld from him now and again, or he was forced to kill another gang member, a friend of his, for stepping out of line, but that was the kind of stuff he repressed. He took a long drag off his cigarette. 

Another gang member killed Mad, this girl named Etta. One of the few females that Deadlock had picked up. She had been the one that gave Jesse his tattoo on his left forearm. When he learned of the attack, he had to admit, it wasn’t the best news he’d ever received, but it didn’t bother him all that much. He was disappointed that he would no longer be as high up in ranks as he used to be, but that was about it. Jesse stopped getting emotionally attached after 2050. 

Now, Amos had been in charge for about six months. He immediately treated everyone the exact same; like shit. No one was held in high regards, no one was on his A list. McCree kicked some dirt with the toe of his boot, wondering if he was going to be fed tonight after the office incident. Amos was always incredibly concerned with information. He was less of a gunslinger leading a Southwestern gang and more of a guy trying to be like a spy organization. The name Shimada floated through McCree’s head, and it dawned on him that Amos was trying to mimic Shimada clan styles in his work. McCree chuckled. Just like fucking Amos to emulate those Shimada bastards’ ways of thinking. 

The door swung open and Cooper, one of McCree’s buddies, stepped out. He held his hand out, asking for a cigarette as he approached him. McCree obliged. 

“Davia wants you.” He said plainly. McCree threw his smoke on the ground and doused it under his foot. 

“Just my luck.”

Five hours later, McCree was sitting on a smelly mattress behind a locked door, holding a piece of his torn shirt over his bleeding arm, his stomach growling and his head pounding from a lack of nicotine. 

\---

**Deadlock** ; {see ‘Deadlock Gang’}  Deadlock Rebels. Est. 1976

     [Notable members]

             -Madden “Mad” Rivera (2021) *deceased

             -Amos Davia * (2025) *deceased

             -Jesse “Deadeye” McCree (2039)

             -Cooper “Quickdraw” Garcia (unknown)

             -Levi Martinez (unknown)

             -Etta Williams (unknown)

     [Location of Operation]

             Route 66 ; [California, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas;...]

     [Industry]

             "...trafficking illicit weapons and military hardware throughout the southwest  United States…” {as per the Overwatch ™ database}

     [Notable]

             -The Deadlock gang has recently shown an interest in provoking conflict  with members of the Shimada Clan after supposed leader

            Amos  Davia  was outed as a Shimada spy…

Jesse’s eyes blandly skimmed over the rest of the info. The past three months had been pure hell for him. It was only in the recent couple of days that his head had started pounding less, and he wasn’t sure if it was because Amos was dead and finally out of his ass, or because he was finally breaking his smoking addiction. He liked to think it was the former. 

After Jesse got mouthy to Amos too many times, Amos never let a cigarette touch his lips again. He’d watch him like a fucking hawk, keeping track of everything he did, everything he bought. McCree started feeling like shit. He had headaches almost constantly, and a new, unsettling sadness started to creep over him; Cooper said it was depression, but he denied that he could ever come down with something like that. 

To make it worse, McCree barely got fed. He was hungry all the time, thirsty most of the time, always suffering from addiction breaking headaches and fatigue, and Amos was pushing him three times as hard on missions. He was sending him out like Mad used to do, acting like he was his fucking wingman or something. Training increased. Breaks decreased. McCree stopped going to the bars, stopped finding cute guys to woo with his signature charm. He stopped living and started dying. He had the highest kill list in the gang at one point. Amos congratulated him by slapping him across the face, making his headache ring and his eyes burn. 

After enduring three months of suffering (more suffering than usual, anyway), some dirt came out about Amos that shook McCree to his core. Amos was a Shimada clan member, sent on a deep mission years ago to infiltrate Deadlock and learn as much as he could at high command. To be fair, he was as much of a Deadlock member as anyone else, gone through the same training and missions. But the information snapped something in McCree. 

When he confronted Amos and asked him who he really was, Amos shook his head and smiled. Jesse pulled his gun and shot him between the eyes. 

Now, he didn’t know who exactly was in charge. Levi Martinez seemed to be in working position, but now, they functioned as a unit. Their missions were bloodier and riskier than ever before. It was like they all suddenly had nothing to lose, and simultaneously, nothing to gain. They got money. They got drunk, they had sex, they trafficked weapons. Jesse didn’t smoke anymore because suddenly, there wasn’t a burning feeling in his gut that he had to. He hated the Shimada clan, hated that he was so scrawny, hated that his gunslinging was better than ever. 

Everything seemed perfect in his world of hate. 

Then Overwatch had to come in and fuck everything up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> last chapter you got some mccree this chapter you get some HANZO

When Hanzo awoke, he found himself somewhere he had not been when he last closed his eyes. 

Instinct twisted into his head immediately, his senses telling him he was in bed, in _ a _ bed, and his hand reached under his pillow, lightening fast. 

But his fingers grasped nothing. 

He went to sit up then, going to pull his legs closer to help him rise, but his mouth went dry and his arms went numb, not strong enough to continue to pull up the rest of his body as panic seeped its way into Hanzo’s heart. He knew better than to succumb to panic; emotions such as this weakened you, put you in a state where you couldn’t act accordingly. But he didn’t care. He allowed this foreign panic to grip his heart like a vice, squeezing the air out of his lungs as he tore the blanket off of his lower body. 

He stared at the spots where his feet were supposed to be. Looked for his calves and his shins. He reached out, touching the freshly wrapped bandages on his knees, his fingers shaking. 

For the first time in years, Hanzo cried.  

\--- 

Sweat threatened to drip from Hanzo’s forehead into his eyes as he moved, sparring with Genji in the large training facility. After agonizing minutes of gaining no ground against the younger, he finally placed a strong blow to Genji’s chest. He stumbled, and Hanzo took him down. They lay on the mat for a moment, panting, before Genji laughed. Hanzo cracked a smile as he fought to catch his breath, standing and pulling Genji up with him. His prosthetics were so much steadier as he stooped to pick up the water that was sitting on the ground a few feet away. His legs moved so mure surer than they had two years ago. 

Hanzo didn’t remember why his legs were amputated. There was a certain chunk of his memory that was just… missing. Doctors explained it as stress-induced amnesia, parts of his brain blocking out traumatic memories, but that explanation never sat quite right with Hanzo. He woke up in that bed, the bottom halves of his legs missing when he was but thirteen. Now, he was weeks away from his sixteenth birthday, and he still didn’t know nor remember the true reason why he was forced to carry the sound of clinking metal as he walked. 

“You are getting better, brother.” Genji said, his voice light with a smile. Hanzo shrugged. 

“Perhaps you are simply getting worse.”

Genji laughed, punching the older in the arm. Hanzo payed him a soft smirk, wiping the back of his neck to relieve it of sweat before taking his hair down from its former knot. 

The door to the training area slid open, and both boys turned to see who was entering. It was a woman, a servant, most likely. They didn’t bother themselves to try and remember who everyone was that resided at Shimada castle. She bowed before taking another small step closer to the boys. 

“Your father requests your presence before sundown for dinner.” she spoke softly with mildly disjointed Japanese, her appearance suggesting her to be native to a different Asian country. Hanzo nodded once, the movement terse. 

“Tell him we will be there as the sun sets.”

As Hanzo went to his quarters to prepare for dinner, he thought about his past. His legs, his home. His brother. He let the water in the bath run hot, not even letting it cool before he sank himself in, threatening to burn his skin. The steam made fresh sweat bead on his face. He stared at the scars just below his knees. They were not messy like they were lost in an accident. Everything about the stumps where his legs ended was clean. Precise. Hanzo sunk his head into the water until just his eyes peeked out. 

Hanzo had what some might call a  _ complicated _ childhood. Perhaps ‘childhood’ isn’t the correct term. He grew up with anything he could ever want at his disposal - food, drink, wealth, companions,  _ anything _ his heart desired. But there was a price. He let his nose rise above the water, inhaling the lavender scents around him. There always had to be a price. 

At this point, Hanzo wasn’t sure he considered himself fully human. And the fact that this thought did not bother him was only further indication of how frayed and manipulated his emotional state and ways of thinking were. Hanzo was not even sixteen, and he could name every type of poison, recite every assassin that ever lived and name their preferred way of attack, and kill someone in every way possible. His first response was to attack, followed quickly by distrust. He knew how to assemble and properly use every weapon that the Shimada clan had access to; that was saying something. 

He was taught etiquette. How to behave around royalty, important buyers, and partners of the clan. How to behave around his father. His mother. Hanzo had lost count of how many times he had done something improper in his parents' presence and been slapped across the face by his mother, her long, pointed nails left scratches across his jaw. 

He knew better now. He had to. He was the future leader of this clan. The Shimada way was all he had ever known, and as he thought about it, it was all he was  _ going _ to know. He would lead the clan better than anyone had before him, even his father. Especially his father. 

Hanzo pulled himself from the bath and sat on the rug, drying his legs before reattaching his prosthetics. He stared at his appearance in the mirror; he looked like any Shimada before him, just too young. He had the promise to grow into those angular features, allowing the sharpness in his eyes to be evened out by the rest of his appearance. He combed through his hair, which swayed just past his shoulders. As he looked at himself, he realized just how different from him Genji looked. 

Genji wasn’t cut from marble as Hanzo was. He had the same array of knowledge, possessed the same instincts that had been drilled into their heads as children, but he wasn’t a Shimada. Hanzo knew this, even though time and time he denied it in his heart. He knew that when his father stared daggers at his brother’s head as he ate, Genji wasn’t a Shimada. He knew when he came home after a night away with his hair cut short and dyed green that he wasn’t a Shimada. 

What dug at Hanzo’s heart was the fact that he knew this wouldn’t change. 

He so wanted Genji to be obedient, just so that he would be spared the lectures. Be spared the lashings. Be spared everything that he was currently receiving. If he would just behave, he could be Hanzo’s brother. Hanzo could smile at him, could spar with him and laugh with him. 

But somewhere, Hanzo knew this wasn’t a reality they could ever have. Genji was a rogue spirit, a white hot flash of light. And somehow, this sparked some strange feeling in his chest that he couldn't quite place. He wondered what that was since he had never felt that before. 

The answer wouldn’t come to him until years later, so Hanzo stopped thinking about it. 

Instead, he went to dinner. He walked silently and stoically like he would for the next two years, sitting primly and properly with his family the same way he always did, and always would, for the next two years. 

But then two years passed, and his father delivered news to them over dinner that stabbed at something in Hanzo’s heart. 

Their Deadlock spy, “Amos Davia,” as he had gone by, but Katsuro as Hanzo had called him, was dead. Hanzo didn’t particularly feel sadness at the death of his uncle, but as his father relayed more information to them, the Deadlock gang stuck with him. The name Jesse McCree bounced around in his head. Why? The feeling in his gut was akin to the feeling he got when he thought about Genji and his wayward disobedience, his one track mind to get away from the clan. 

Hanzo decided to dismiss the feeling as he always did, but three days later when he read the news about “Outlaw and former gang member ‘Jesse McCree’ recruited to Overwatch,” the feeling returned, and he found that he could not shake it. 

As he was woken from sleep by a needle being pressed into his skin, the feeling stirred harder in his chest. 

As he was dragged from bed, the sedative forced his eyes to close and his limbs to go heavy. He was drug unceremoniously into a room and strapped to a table, his arms secured under leather straps. 

As he drifted in and out of consciousness, the feeling sent pins and needles up and down his arm, his dragons stirring, writhing, but continuing to lie dormant. 

When he finally awoke, the sedative out of his system, and he was met with masked faces holding tools and prongs and needles, poking at his head, he finally realized what the feeling was. 

It was pride. 

He was  _ proud _ of Genji for trying to get out. He was  _ proud _ of that boy, whoever he was, for killing his uncle. One less Shimada to deal with. One less snake in the grass. 

The thought was gone the next time he woke, replaced with his usual consciousness. He opened his eyes to the ceiling of his own room, not understanding why there was a small chunk of hair missing from the very back of his head or why there was a bandage wrapped around his elbow, but something prompted him not to care. He got himself ready and went to talk to his father about important clan matters. Now that he was eighteen, his father was teaching him all kinds of new and exciting information about leading the clan. 

Then six months later, his father died, and Genji had to fuck it all up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh gosh i hope this isn't confusing or bad i apologize writing hanzo's past is difficult but get ready for some strong mccree family building with papi reyes and mom™ morrison


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree learns about his Overwatch family, meeting this edgy cyborg along the way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I started listening to Hamilton?? oh no
> 
> also longest chapter yet hope you're ready

_ They got us. They got all the people I’d grown up with. They took me, and they took Cooper, and they took Etta and Levi.  _

_ But they only kept me. _

_ Why did they only keep me? _

The thought goes through McCree’s mind as Overwatch agents arrest all of the Deadlock members. All except him. He supposes it’s because they’re all older. They’ve lived a long life, they’ve got so much blood on their hands. They consider McCree salvageable. He’s just a kid. Barely past seventeen. Surely he can be saved.

But they’re wrong.

He struggles. He struggles so much, and every time they ask him to join Blackwatch or go to jail, join Overwatch or rot in a cell, he just sits there in silence. That fucking blonde haired, blue eyed bastard just keeps asking, and asking, and ‘giving it to him straight.’ McCree holds onto jabs, cracks, insults, and silence. He was glad he quit smoking. The only feeling in his gut was hunger, but he was used to that.

And then  _ this guy _ comes in, walking into the containment cell like he owned the place. Which, as McCree studied his face, he noted that he probably did. His features McCree could only describe as rugged; strong jaw cleanly covered in well-kept facial hair, wide nose, dark eyes turned toward the ground, thick eyebrows. A black beanie covered his hair if he had any. McCree’s eyes trailed along the scars that were scattered across his cheeks and nose.

He was talking as he walked, eyes looking at the door, then the files in his hands, then the table between them. McCree only saw the rich brown color when he finally made eye contact; as they stared each other down, the words falling from Gabriel Reyes’ mouth trickled, then stopped. His face almost held a look of shock, maybe confusion dotting his expression, but McCree steeled his gaze and leaned forward, wrists pulling against the cuffs linked to the wood of the chair he was sat in.

“Did blondie get tired o’ me?” he questioned, arching his mouth into a side smirk that held only malice. “Had to send in Mr. Overwatch himself?”

Gabriel stared at him a moment longer, the confusion morphing from its previous blank expression into one of laughter. His booming chuckles filled the room, echoing off the metallic walls. McCree scowled.

“You really are just a kid,” he spoke through a grin, but after tossing the files onto the table and leaning forward, hands braced, the smile didn’t reach his eyes anymore. “How’d a kid like you manage to get wrapped up in Deadlock?”

The question wasn’t a new one, and McCree took a moment to think of an answer. Then he spat at Gabriel, not much actual spit flying from his dry mouth, but the message was construed. Gabriel laughed again. This time, something did reach his eyes, but it wasn’t happiness. It was something else. Something mischievous, like the glint that a predator gets in his eye when examining prey.

“I like you, kid.” he started speaking again, opening the files he had with him and scattering papers across the table. Jesse’s eye caught a printed out photograph of a desert landscape dotted with a few figures, pixelated in the copy. He recognized the tall, long-limbed one in the middle. “Jesse ‘Deadeye’ McCree. Quite a name. Why’d you go with Deadeye as your nickname, huh?” he continued.

Jesse thunked back in his chair, tilting his chin up. He winked at the man, letting an easy smile manifest.

“That’s classified,” he said. Gabriel looked back up at him, then went back to reading things.

“Not as classified as you might think,” he responded, the mischievous glint in his eyes traveling down into his teeth as he smiled. “We’ve gotten a hold of some footage from some undercover friends of ours of your actions in the field, and I gotta say, I want someone like you on my team.”

“Flattery ain’t gonna do you no good, pal.” McCree interrupted the thought process, rolling out a kink in his neck. “I’d rather take me and my Deadeye behind bars than put on some leggings and fight crime.”

“Nobody said you gotta wear leggings.”

Once again, the expression behind his eyes shifted, turning from predatory to something childlike, almost gleeful, but only behind the eyes. It was a blink and you’ll miss it kind of look. McCree sat forward, just a bit.

“What  _ can _ I wear?”

Now the look settled in all over his face, a wide smile placed between the dark hair on his chin. He swept his arms out to the sides as if he was showing something off. “Anything you want. If I’m being honest, I don’t think prison orange is your color.”

McCree smiled, its nature unreadable.

“I need a cowboy hat and a gift card to Yellowhair.”

\---

Gabriel and Jack were walking through Overwatch Headquarters, Gabriel looking over some article on a Holopad in his hand, Jack accompanying him quietly, save for the random question or statement now and then. They turned a corner down another hall, shoes tapping in sync.

“So, what does ‘BAMF’ stand for?” he asked. Gabriel chuckled, not looking up from his article.

“That’s classified.”

A smile spread across his face as he heard Jack’s exasperated noises. It had been months since Jesse had joined Blackwatch, and Jack had a hard time understanding how the pair of them got along so well. Jesse was learning to respect Jack, but they had this kind of animosity between them that Jack couldn’t quite place. He didn’t particularly care, since the kid unnerved him to no end, his stupid hat and clinking spurs and obnoxious belt buckle all just sticking pins into his sides. Gabe poked his elbow into him, jostling him from the thoughts.

“Don’t worry about the kid. I can handle him.”

“I know  _ you _ can handle him, I’m worried about whether or not the  _ team _ can handle him.” They stopped walking then, facing each other.

“He’s not a bad kid, just mouthy. And annoying. It’s gonna take time to break him out of his Deadlock headspace, Jackie. But it’ll happen, and then, he’s gonna be one of the most valuable people on our team.”

Jack nodded. “I know. If anyone can do that, it’s you.”

Gabe smiled, eyes soft. He put a hand on Jack’s shoulder when a loud, long whistle made both of them jump.

“An’ just when I thought nothin’ could surprise me-” McCree’s stupid drawl called their attention to the kid standing at the end of the hall. His hand went to ruffle the hair of a little girl standing just about at waist level on him. The girl giggled.

“See, I told you!” she ducked from McCree’s hand, swatting it away and continuing to chatter to the boy. Gabe shook his head and laughed, pressing a quick kiss to Jack’s temple before walking towards the pair, muttering under his breath as the two kids started laughing together, “I think he’ll fit into the team better than we expected.”

“Where’s your mother at, Fareeha?” Gabe asked as he approached. Fareeha shrugged, hair swaying at her shoulders as she looked up at McCree. The boy shrugged as well, his hair also swaying at his shoulders. Gabriel shook his head, giving a little love shove to McCree’s shoulder with the back of his hand.

“You need a haircut. Your hair looks stupid.”

McCree and Fareeha both gasp in mock horror. As the girl starts dying with laughter, McCree puts on a hurt face, eyes getting big and glassy. He holds onto his strands of hair, pushing his lip out into a pout.

“That was mean an’ you know it,” he said. Gabriel exhaled, the sound mimicking a laugh that he just didn’t have the energy for.

“Let’s see if we can find Ana,” he started, and McCree perked up. “And if we can’t, then I’m cutting your hair myself.” he deflated again. Fareeha was still giggling as he pulled McCree along behind him down the next hallway.

\---

They couldn’t find Ana at the base, so Gabriel had sat Jesse down in a chair outside, bringing a pair of scissors with him. He went to make the first cut, but the boy spun around, pointing a finger, a deadly look in his eye.

“You cut it too short, and you’re a dead man, Reyes.” he says, voice deadly serious.

“You keep talkin’ like that and I’m sending you to prison.”

McCree smirks, then turns back around and allows Gabriel to trim his hair.

The experience is a strange one, to say the least. For starters, they don’t talk much. They don’t talk at all, in fact. Jesse just sits there and listens to the rhythmic snip of the scissors as they slice through hair. It’s awkward, to be honest, but he sits still. He doesn’t care if the edges are messy, so Gabriel doesn’t try to make them clean. Jesse finds his mind wandering. Thinking about his Deadlock days. His fingers twist the brim of his hat.

Since the day he was let out of the containment room, McCree had never gone hungry. He had a bedroom, one with a mattress that didn’t smell stale and was comfortable to sleep on, even if he didn’t do much sleeping. When he sassed his commanders, they didn’t punish him. Instead, they sassed him right back. They pushed his stupid hat down over his eyes, or stole it off his head completely, holding it above his head while he threw insults at them. They gave him haircuts.

Instead of handing him alcohol or asking for cigarettes like the people that used to surround him, the people at this base offered him coffee. They asked for piggyback rides through the halls, or pulled him along to show him ‘Gabe and Jackie being gross.’ 

Jesse stopped thinking about it suddenly, not wanting to start believing that these people cared for him. They didn’t. He was their prisoner, technically. Gabriel set down the scissors and Jesse shoved the hat back onto his head, mumbling a thank you before leaving and shutting himself in his room.

\---

Four years later, Jesse goes sprinting down a hallway where Jack and Gabriel are making out, Fareeha on his shoulders, hands pressing his hat down to where it barely sits above his eyes. She yells, hand reaching out to steal the black beanie from Gabriel’s head.

“And so the hunter becomes the  _ hunted _ !” she calls over her shoulder as Jesse turns the corner, dropping Fareeha from her perch and pulling her into an adjacent room, locking the door. He rolls his shoulders out, laughing as they hear Gabriel try to push the door open, then kick it futilely, yelling at them the whole time.

“You’re gettin’ heavier and heavier, little missy,” he says, and Fareeha punched him in the side, the only place she could reach. She had grown tremendously over the past four years, but so had Jesse. It was amazing what some food, water, and real training had done to fill him out. 

He stood just a little shorter than Gabriel now, his hat surpassing his commander’s height. Some facial hair had started to grown on his chin, and he had started drinking again, but only on Friday nights and only after Ana and Fareeha were gone so that Fareeha didn’t see him do it, and Ana wasn’t there to scold him (even though he was perfectly legal now, in  _ all _ countries, thank you very much, Ana.)

He knew Jack better now, and while he respected him, he still gave him plenty of shit, always supplying enough reasons for him to hate Jesse. It always made him laugh when he finally had had enough and lit into him because Jesse knew now that he didn’t mean it.

And Gabriel - well, Jesse supposed he was the person whom he was closest to. Jesse was afraid to really label it, fearing he would get too…  _ comfy _ . He preferred not to think about it too hard.

After about ten minutes, the two thieves quietly opened the door and snuck from the room. They only got about twenty feet away before Gabriel jumped them and took his hat back, making Fareeha squeal and run. He smacked Jesse on the shoulder with the back of his hand, smiling.

“Walk with me, stupid.” he said, so Jesse did, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“What’s up, boss? Somethin’ new? Somethin’ exciting?” he grinned. Around the base, it seemed all Jesse could do was grin.

Gabriel’s body language was still light, but his tone was serious, so Jesse sobered up. “I’m bringing in a new possible recruit today,” he said. “For Blackwatch. His name is Genji Shimada. He-”

But Jesse had stopped listening. The name struck an intense chord in Jesse’s memory, and his eyes kind of fogged over as the memories swept over him. His body moved on autopilot, walking beside Gabriel who was still talking, probably giving him valuable information. He couldn’t listen.  _ Shimada. _

“You even listening, McCree?” and McCree snapped back into reality. They had stopped walking.

“I- no, not really, jefe,” he confessed. Gabriel sighed and put his fingers to his forehead, muttering something to himself.

“I’ll give you the condensed version so maybe you can give me the honor of paying attention. Genji and Hanzo Shimada are brothers, heirs to the Shimada clan’s ‘throne’ if you will. They got in a fight, Genji died, but Angela saved him. He’s training with us, and hopefully, he’ll join Blackwatch. Lo tengo?”

McCree nodded, but icy memories still clung to his vision, frozen onto his spine. He needed to clear his head for a while, then he would be-

“You’re gonna meet him right now.” Gabriel continued walking again, expecting Jesse to follow. His blood turned to ice, then fire as a mixture of fear and anger bubbled in his veins.

“No, I can’t, not right now, at least, I-”

“Look, I know you’ve got some Shimada history and this is all kind of a shock, but I want you to meet the boy before you read all about him. Go in with a clean and confused perspective and fill in the gaps and come to terms later.”

They reached the door to the training facility, which slid open at their presence.

Jesse’s eyes connected with a blur of red light.

“Genji, this is Jesse McCree. Please, don’t kill him before you get to know him.”

Instead of addressing McCree verbally, Gabriel just smacked his back as he turned and went to leave, the gesture generally meaning  _ don’t scare him away, and por el amor de Dios, don’t kill him.   _

\---

It had been six years since McCree was taken in as a prisoner of Overwatch. He didn’t much consider himself a prisoner anymore.

Genji is one of the best friends he’s ever had; not that he has many examples of good friends from his past. It had been two years since their first introduction, and though it took a long time for him to come around to the cowboy, Genji eventually did. He wasn’t a very happy guy, and McCree didn’t even see him that often, but they were close, working seamlessly on the battlefield together and providing some laughter when at home. Genji was funny - parts of his old self would come through occasionally, but he was clouded over with hate because of his past. McCree didn’t blame him.

It had taken time for Genji to truly reveal his past to McCree, just as it had taken time for McCree to share his own past connections to the name his friend bared. When he revealed that he himself had killed Amos, or Katsuro, as Genji had muttered, he was braced for anger. But he got a resigned chuckle instead.  _ Let us hope the bastard stays dead,  _ he had said.

Talking about that particular area of his past not only made McCree severely uncomfortable but also made some kind of anger bubble up inside him. The hot headache that thrummed behind his eyes was such a surprise that he almost didn’t recognize it as what it was. He had stood up and walked out of the conversation he had been having with Genji, his spurred footsteps interrupting the man’s words.

At any rate, they had gotten over trying to be hostile towards one another and had learned to work together, for the sake of the team on missions, and for the sake of their own personal well-being. The less hate Genji held towards others and the less McCree’s Deadeye buzzed in the back of his skull, the better.

However, just because he’d come to befriend a Shimada didn’t mean he didn’t want to end the clan now more than ever. He’d always had a particular spark of abhorrence towards the clan, even before the spy outing in Deadlock, though he wasn’t always certain why. He’d chalked it up nowadays to doing the good thing and hating on the bad, though his own answer didn’t always sit right with him.

Due to this, after a little over two years in Genji’s presence, he came to him asking when his next flight to Hanamura would be. Genji was working on his own to dismantle his family’s empire, his own malice practically making his circuits fry daily. Genji told him, but almost immediately after, got a look in his eye like McCree had done something unthinkable.

“Why do you ask?” he questioned, stepping further into McCree’s personal space. McCree took a step back, holding his hands up to show he meant no harm, a habit he had gotten into recently.

“Woah, nothin’ crazy, just wonderin’,” he said, putting some laughter on the edge of his voice to try and ease Genji, but Genji always seemed to see through the cowboy. His eyes bore holes into McCree’s head as he stared in silence for a moment before looking away, his words coming out in a biting, sharp tone.

“You  _ know _ you cannot travel to Hanamura, Jesse,” he said. “It is far too dangerous, and you’ve yet to be trained in-”

“Oh, don’t you start lecturing me like my god damn  _ papi! _ ” he shouted, annoyance taking hold of him. “I don’t wanna hear Reyes’ words comin’ outta your mouth. Ain’t right.”

“But you know that you cannot go.”

“Why the hell not? I think it’s a perfectly reasonable idea for me to go with you to take down the Shimadas considering it’d be like redemption for me.”

Genji tilted his head. “How would you consider that redemption?”

“Couldn’t take down my own crime unit, might as well try to do right by taking down yours with yah!” he practically shouted, trying to articulate that somehow, by defeating this evil in their world he’d be helping to erase his own evil in Deadlock. Genji stared, then shook his head.

“You’re far too recognizable, and it’s far too dangerous for you to-”

“I can change my get up, look into asking Jack for some help in train-”

“Jesse, you are not coming. Your face is one of the ones that my family has pinned to a corkboard, your eyes exed out. You don’t understand what kind of thought process my family goes through. You wouldn’t even get off the plane without someone confronting you and killing you.”

“But I can handle myself, I’m not some kid who just-”

“I’m sorry, Jesse, you know if I thought you’d be alright I’d let you come. But I know my family’s malice, and I know that Gabriel would never let it happen.”

The argument died out as fast as it had started, leaving McCree to walk back to his room, hand buried in his pockets, annoyance simmering off of him in waves. When he sat down on the edge of his bed, he let his eyes roam over the tattoo on the inside of his left arm. The stupid little skull trapped by wings on either side of it held up by banners above and below it.  _ Deadlock Rebels. Est. 1976. _

Three weeks later, McCree snuck his way onto Genji’s jet with a one-way ticket to Hanamura, holding his breath the entire way so the cyborg wouldn’t even hear him.

Getting onto that jet might have been the third stupidest thing he’d ever done, surpassing only by the 2054 Bar Olympics and his decision to join Deadlock.


End file.
